


Abattoir Blues

by When_Tommy_Met_Alfie



Series: When Tommy met Alfie AU [13]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Dubious Medicinal Practices, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Finn, M/M, Major Illness, Season/Series 01/02 AU, wtma AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 07:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13289880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie/pseuds/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie
Summary: Tommy falls gravely ill. It sets off all sorts of emotions in the Shelby family. Alfie does his best to keep it together.





	Abattoir Blues

**Author's Note:**

> So, here it is: over 7000 words of nothing but hurt/comfort. Why would anyone write this? Who knows. I enjoyed it more than I should've. I hope you enjoy reading it! Also: I'm currently taking story requests over on my tumblr (my url is whentommymetalfie), so head over there if you'd like to make one. They'll be open for another day or two!

When Alfie wakes up, it’s to the pleasant surprise of Tommy still being in bed for once. He’s always fashioned himself an early riser, but most days, Tommy beats even him. And this despite Alfie doing his absolute best to tire him out. However, this is one of those rare days when Alfie finds him sound asleep, curled up on his side in the bed next to him. Happens a bit more often these days, though. Not as quiet many nightmares, the latest month or so. Just that ever-present restlessness that always courses through his veins. 

Alfie catches himself just lying there, head propped up on his hand, looking at his sleeping companion with a goofy grin on his face. Fuck it, it’s his prerogative, innit? Alfie Solomons likes to cuddle after a fuck, what of it? Not like it’s with just anyone: he gets to take Tommy Shelby to bed, who can blame him for wanting to savour the moment a bit. Even after all these months, this is a view he never tires of. 

He can’t resist the urge to reach out and run his fingers through Tommy’s sleep mussed hair. It’s sort of wavy like this, and he knows it bothers Tommy to no end when it rains because it turns into these soft, almost- curls. The shitty Birmingham weather is suddenly not such a problem anymore. 

Tommy shifts closer in his sleep and curls up against him, and Alfie thinks –right at that moment- that he’s ruined. Forever, despite how fucking cliché it sounds. This man holds his entire heart in the palm of his hand. Compared to that feeling, having a gun to his head seems like a fucking walk in the park.

The hand in his hair eventually causes Tommy to wake up.

“You can never keep your hands to yourself,” he mutters, but seems perfectly happy with the situation.

“Oh, you know you fucking love it.” Alfie presses a kiss onto the top of his head as he wraps his arms around him. He thinks for a moment that Tommy feels a bit warmer than usual, but puts it down to the heat under the blankets. “Did you sleep alright?” The eternal question. 

“Mhm,” Tommy sighs, still not fully awake. He's slept fine, it seems. Alfie is very pleased. “What time is it?”

“Afraid you slept in?” he teases lightly. “Did I finally wear you out? Thought that day would never come.”

“You wish,” Tommy says and grins lazily at him.

“Well, third time’s the charm, isn’t that what they say?” Alfie chuckles and rolls them over and captures Tommy’s smaller body under his own, resting his elbows on either side of his head as he leans down to kiss him. He nudges Tommy’s legs apart with his knees and settles between his thighs, deepening the kiss hungrily.

“Alfie, I don’t have time for this,” Tommy says in between the kisses and attempts to slip out from under him. “Tonight. I promise you’ll have me all to yourself then.” Alfie tries to keep him there for just a moment, before realizing it’s a lost cause and rolling onto his back with just a slightly frustrated sigh. At least he gets a nice view as Tommy gets out of bed and start searching for his clothes that are strewn haphazardly around the room.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be too?” Tommy asks and quirks an eyebrow as he buttons his shirt.

“Sure, sure. My presence is always needed someplace, right. Going down to oversee the set up of the new bakery. But what's the rush, eh?” Alfie yawns and stretches out, wringing a satisfying cracking sound from his back. “You're going to the stables?” Tommy nods and pulls his jacket on, already heading for the door. _Always in such a rush that boy_.

“Yeah. I’ll be back in the afternoon sometime.”

“Don’t I get a kiss goodbye?” The comment earns a sigh, but Tommy humours him and leans down, giving Alfie the chance to promptly wrap both arms around his waist and pull him back into bed.

“You’re hopeless Solomons!” Tommy wriggles to get out of his grip, but it’s quite useless.

"I remember very few complaints about this last night. Completely different tone then, eh?”

“If you don’t let me go right now, I swear you’ll regret it,” Tommy says. “Remember that you’re going to London tomorrow. And I’m not. So, it would be in your best interests to have me in a good mood tonight.” Alfie relents, smirking as Tommy virtually flings himself out of bed and arm’s reach. Then he frowns instead, as Tommy suddenly falters, catching hold of the dresser for support.

“You okay?”

“Sure, fine,” Tommy says and straightens up again. Isn’t he a bit paler than usual?

“I’ve got to go, see you later.” Alfie doesn’t push it, though he does call out after him.

 “At least fucking eat something before you leave!”

 ...

 

 Alfie returns from the brewery late in the afternoon to find the Shelby household unusually quiet, and ventures to the kitchen where he finds John and a pot of tea.

“Why are you always here,” John mutters as he enters, but there is no real hostility behind the words anymore. That’s an improvement. Alfie pours himself a cup of tea and shoots him a grin.

“Because I’m fucking your brother. Turns out that is a bloody full time job.” he states. John just rolls his eyes at this -he isn't nearly as tightly wound as Arthur about this whole thing. “But fear not, Johnny-boy, I’m going to London tomorrow. You’ll have to live without my handsome face for a few days. But that also means you'll have to keep an eye on Tommy. So it's more of a punishment, disguised as a gift."

The front door slams. But no one comes. No steps, nor any greeting phrases are heard. Alfie puts his cup down on the counter and goes to check out of pure habit. Never a good sign when visitors don’t make themselves known.

He finds Tommy standing in the hallway, hand on the doorframe and eyes staring vacantly at nothing in particular. He doesn’t even seem to notice Alfie. Something about the way he holds himself is off, and he sways just slightly as he places his cap on the coatrack and rubs the bridge of his nose with a rather pained look on his face. As if he doesn’t know he’s being watched, and is forgetting to keep that usual façade up.

“Tommy, you alright sweetheart? Looking a bit peckish over there.” Alfie asks and studies him intently. Probably hasn't eaten all fucking day. Would explain the unsteady feet. Tommy looks up at him, eyes oddly dulled with something Alfie can’t place. He is deathly pale, and a thin sheen of sweat covers his face. And Alfie isn't a fucking idiot, he knows those signs... 

“Sure… it’s fine. I’m fine…” he mumbles, blinking. Then he takes another step forward, and his knees buckle. Alfie curses under his breath, and rushes forward just in time to catch him as he collapses.

Tommy hangs in his embrace like a broken puppet with its strings cut, and he lowers them both onto the floor. As his head drops heavily against Alfie’s shoulder, he feels it right away: Tommy is radiating feverish heat. It seems to burn with such ferocity that it can be felt even through his jacket. 

“Oi, Tommy, you with me?” he pats his cheek, but Tommy remains unresponsive.

“John! Get out here, right this fucking second!”

John comes running. Must be the first time he’s showed any kind of urgency in response to something Alfie’s said. He looks at the pair on the floor.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Fever. From the fucking pits of hell, it would seem. Call a doctor,” Alfie tells him firmly, already getting up on his feet with Tommy cradled in his arms. “Tell him he gets paid double if he’s here within the hour, and that I’ll make a necklace out of his fucking teeth if he’s not. And when I say doctor, I mean a real fucking doctor, yeah? Not just some hack you’ve got on your payroll for some bloody reason.”

“We can’t-“

“I’m paying, obviously.” He hears John making the call as he walks upstairs.

Alfie gets Tommy stripped down to his underwear without struggling too much with his unresponsive limbs. Not that he hasn’t had a lot of practice, but usually Tommy is a bit more cooperative. Once he’s put him in the bed he covers him with a thin blanket, if only to make him look a little less vulnerable. He gets a bowl of water. A rag that he soaks before placing it on Tommy’s forehead. As if he’s done nothing in his life but this: taking care of another person. When in fact, all he’s ever done is quite the opposite of that. How things change. Isn’t life just a wondrous fucking adventure? He pulls up a chair to his bedside and sits down with a sigh.

John comes up and says a doctor is on his way. He stands in the doorway for a moment, weighing from foot to foot, not sure how to act. Alfie ignores him. And he eventually goes away to pace somewhere else.

Tommy comes to after a while, opening his bright blue eyes. They’re shining with fever. He looks up at Alfie, dazed.

“What happened?” he mutters.

“You came home and just sort of collapsed in the doorway,” Alfie says and refrains from saying something witty about swooning. Tommy doesn’t seem to be all there yet, a joke will probably just go over his head. Tommy eyes scan the room, it takes a while for him to piece the situation together.

“How did I get here then?”

“I carried you.”

Tommy nods absentmindedly and then closes his eyes again, as if the mere effort of keeping them open is too much.

“You shouldn’t carry me,” he mutters. “Think about your back.”

“Fuck it. The day I can’t carry you to bed anymore, right, I might as well put a bullet in my own head,” Alfie scoffs. “I’ve lived out my usefulness then.”

“Don’t say shit like that.” Tommy’s hand twitches, and Alfie knows that’s his que to take it. He’s good at that, reading into these little signs to see what Tommy wants. Because God knows he’s bad at showing it. Tommy Shelby would never outright admit that he needs something as basic as affection from another person. But Alfie knows.

“Sorry about that, love.” He runs his thumb over his knuckles. He tries not to drag out his answers. Tommy needs the silence. 

“I shouldn’t have let you kiss me.” Tommy looks up at him. Worried, clearly. “This morning. What if it’s contagious?”

“How long have you been feeling sick, eh?” Alfie asks instead of giving a response to that. “And no fucking lies. You know I can tell.”

“Yesterday morning,” comes the answer after some time. Alfie sighs. “Just a sore throat. Bit of a headache. I didn’t think anything of it. Thought it was just-“ Tommy has to pause, swallow painfully. “The factory smoke.”

“Fucking hell, Tommy,” Alfie groans. “You’ve got to tell me shit like this.”

“What if you get sick too?” Tommy says, clearly thinking this is the only concerning part about hiding this illness.

“Clearly, that's not the fucking point,” Alfie retorts. “You’ve been running around town with a fever for two days. No wonder you fucking collapsed. Surprised you didn’t do it sooner. Fucking hell, no sense of self-preservation.”

“It’s not that bad. I-“

“Don’t give me that shit.” Alfie is not having this. “I know this is a constant fucking struggle, yeah? The talking. About how you feel. But this is just fucking unacceptable. What if you hadn’t made it home, eh? Just passed out somewhere in the gutter.”

He should’ve noticed last night. He searches through his memory for any signs that he might have missed.  

“Stop it.”

“What?”

“You’re worrying about me.”

“Yeah. You tend to do that to me. All cards on the table, when it comes to shit like this, yeah? That's our aim. Think you could at least try?” 

“Sure,” Tommy sighs. Though he’s pretty sure he only does it to shut him up. Alfie figures they’ll have this discussion again. When Tommy is better.

... 

During the coming hour, the rest of the extended Shelby family arrives home, and after being met by a quite instable John the minute each of them step through the door, they all come by to check in on their sick family member. Tommy sleeps through it all. Or is unconscious. It’s hard to tell.

Polly is calm, just asks Alfie if he’s called the doctor, and is satisfied to hear that John has.

Ada and Finn come up together. Finn has not learned to hesitate showing his emotions and runs up to hug his sick brother, but Ada gently holds him back.

“We don’t know if it’s contagious, sweetie. Better to give him some space for now.”

Arthur is the last one to arrive home.

He comes to stand in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He says nothing, but the look he gives Alfie is showing disapproval. Alfie couldn’t give less of a fuck. Who knows what goes on in that head of his? Let him seethe.

 ...

The doctor finally arrives. “I would prefer it if the patient could get some privacy,” he says and looks sternly at the gathered family members in the doorway. The statement is met by a wave of protests, but Polly eventually manages to get them all out of the room. Though when the doctor turns to Alfie, expecting him to follow suite, Alfie just stares him down, fucking daring him to say something about it.

“I want him here,” Tommy says quietly from the bed, and the statement causes Alfie’s heart to clench painfully.

“Very well, Mr. Solomons can stay.” The doctor places his case next to the bed and pulls up a chair. Alfie sits down at the foot of the bed.

The doctor does a thorough examination; asking Tommy to cough, listens to his pulse, checks blood pressure. And then asks questions that Tommy gives single worded answers to. Sometimes he just nods or shakes his head.

It’s some sort of infection. Probably in the throat, the doctor states after quite a while, and ordinates strict bed rest for a few days. Not much that can be done except that. At least not by a doctor in Birmingham. Maybe if they’d been in London. Alfie runs a list in his head: does he know a doctor? It’s been years since he was even remotely sick. Can’t even remember the last time. But if they’d been there. Instead of this shit-hole. He looks at Tommy, realizes he is in no shape to be moved anywhere. Could he get hold of a doctor, get one driven here? Of course he could, he is Alfie Solomons. But it would take a few days, and he knows these high fevers don’t tend to last that long. In a few days, it’ll be better. Or have gone in the opposite direction. And then, it’s a man of a different profession that will be needed.

The doctor asks Alfie to accompany him to the door, pulling him from these thoughts. Alfie gives Tommy’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I don’t want to cause unnecessary alarm,” the doctor says once they’re downstairs. “But he’s got a quite high fever. I will provide a thermometer, and should his temperature reach above 104 you will have to cool him down by any means necessary to avoid it inflicting damage on his brain. ” Alfie nods and accepts the thin glass thermometer the doctor hands him.

On his way upstairs again, he meets Arthur as he comes out of the kitchen. It’s quite clear that he is planning on saying something. Alfie wishes he wouldn’t, because he is in no fucking mood to hear anything from this man right now.

“You really haven’t noticed?” Arthur says. “That he’s been sick?”

Alfie is sort of surprised that he dares to confront him. He usually follows Arthur’s continuous inner conflict with amusement: Between being a good older brother who disapproves of his little brother’s choice of partner, and being rather nervous around said partner. Arthur thinks he’s a bit insane, that’s one of the reasons he worries. Maybe Alfie is, fucking insane that is. Maybe Arthur should worry. But now, he doesn’t find it the least bit amusing.

“No. You know what he’s like. That boy could walk around with a knife right through his fucking gut and claim he was fine.” he says. An honest answer. Instead of some insane shit. Arthur nods tightly.

“Yeah. Then again, I don’t share a bed with him.”

Right. Now he’s on thin fucking ice.

“And what, dear Arthur, is that supposed to fucking mean?”

“Just that I don’t understand how someone can spend an entire night next to him and not notice that something is wrong.” Arthur keeps his voice down, but is quite clearly furious.

Alfie could take the highroad here. Explain calmly that Tommy got worse quickly during the day, probably because he was on his feet during all of it. That he wasn’t there to fucking notice. But the fact remains that Arthur isn’t entirely off: Tommy was sick last night too. It just wasn’t as bad. And yeah, maybe that twinge of guilt is what causes him to lose his temper.

“Right. Spit it out.” He walks up to Arthur, crosses his arms over his chest. “You clearly got a lot on your fucking mind, as usual. Out with it.” Arthur surprisingly doesn’t back down once. Clearly he doesn’t know what’s good for him.

“I’m wondering if maybe you didn’t want to notice,” he says instead.

“Is that so?” Alfie sneers and lets out a humourless chuckle.

“Men usually see a lot less clearly in bed.” Arthur continues. “Only hear what they want to hear right then. See what they want to see.” Had Alfie had his gun right then, Arthur might just have lost a foot. Probably good that it’s not here. Gives less room for mistakes. But he clenches his fist. Stares him down.

“Right, so that’s where you’re fucking going with this?” He is right up in Arthur’s face now. He’s itching to just punch him in the nose. “Been holding onto that one for a while, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, and maybe I should’ve said something sooner.”

“For God’s sake!” Quite unexpectedly, it’s Esme that goes between them before things turn violent. “Would you, for once in your fucking life keep it together,” she snaps at Arthur as she pushes him away. “We’re all on edge here. Throwing accusations around is helping no-one.” She looks from one to the other. “And the pair of you should know better than to fight right now. Grown fucking men acting like a pair of school boys.” She glares at both of them. “Arthur, you can come with me to the kitchen. Channel that anger into peeling some potatoes. People need to eat or this house will descend into chaos.”

She leaves no room for protests, and drags Arthur away. Alfie finds himself with a newfound respect for her. He goes upstairs to see to Tommy.

 ...

Fevers are things that just has to be waited out. And Alfie knows the underlying truth: things will get worse, and then they’ll either get better again. Or not.

Things do get a lot worse.

Night falls, and Tommy is completely delirious with fever through most of it. He tosses and turns in the bed, muttering incoherencies in his mother tongue. Alfie sits by his bedside, wipes his forehead with the damp cloth to soothe his burning skin, holds him when the nightmares causes him to wake up screaming in terror. For a moment, he wonders how the fuck this happened. Since when does Alfie Solomons keep vigil by his sick lover’s bedside? Like som fucking cliché? 

 

But he doesn't for a second consider leaving. No, he'll get Tommy through this too. Like he's done with everything else.

And when Tommy, utterly lost in delirium and with wide, unseeing eyes pleads for anything and everything – _don’t leave me, go away, let me go, Alfie, please stay_ \- he gets into bed next to him and takes him in his arms, holding him close as the anguish washes over him in waves. Whispering hushed promises that it’s all going to be alright. _I’ve got you, you’re safe…_ He tries to tell himself it's just like any other bad night, when Tommy's nightmares are at their worst. But it's not, is it? 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Tommy suddenly looks straight at him. Painfully rasping out the words. “What if you get sick too?” It’s such an unexpected moment of clarity in the midst of all the fever-induced insanity that Alfie can’t respond at once.

“I can’t lose you,” Tommy says and shakes his head. The feverish haze never leaves his eyes. Alfie can’t tell if he’s actually aware of what he’s saying or not. “I can’t.” Alfie holds him tighter. Not much else he can do.

“No one is losing anyone here, yeah?” he says firmly. “I won’t get sick. And you’ll get better. Give it a day or two, and you’ll be back to bossing people around. Driving everyone up the wall. Me especially.”

Tommy struggles a bit, reverting to muttering words he can’t understand again.

The rest of the night it’s just more of the same. 

At some point during the absolute worst of it, when the fever spikes, Tommy cries, utterly lost in some nightmare. And it’s somehow the most awful fucking thing, and Alfie finally thinks that fuck it, he’ll just leave. Go back to London, forget he ever became involved with this man who has turned him into a fucking emotional wreck. Because this wasn’t what he signed up for. He wasn’t supposed to end up here, awake in the middle of the night and be forced to watch Tommy go through absolute hell without being able to do anything. It’s too fucking hard, and now he’s just going to give up on this whole thing.

And it’s a true testament to his insanity, that he doesn’t. Instead he just pulls Tommy closer and lets him cry against his shoulder. For the rest of the night, he sits like that. He's done that before, for other reasons. He can do it with this too. 

... 

When the first beams of sunlight shines through the dirty windowpane, Tommy has finally fallen into an exhausted sleep that seems to be mostly without nightmares. The fever has gone down just slightly, and maybe the night’s departure has given him some peace too. Nights are difficult, Alife knows.

 ...

The day drags on. Tommy mostly just sleeps, waking up for only brief moments. Never quite there. Alfie paces the house in between, when it feels like his back will snap in half if he doesn’t get some circulation back into his body. He tries to make Tommy drink whenever he wakes up. Sometimes tries to speak to him, ask how he’s doing. Tommy just looks straight through him, vacantly. As if he can’t see him.

Every once in a while, someone comes to check on him. Bring tea. Or just look worried. Ask if something’s changed. Finn is there at least once every hour, and Alfie can’t bear to tell him off. The first few times, the boy is too afraid to come any closer than the threshold.

“You can come in if you want,” Alfie says the third time he sees the boy look through the ajar door. “It’s not contagious, so you won’t get ill.” Finn still hesitates. Alfie is pretty sure it’s got more to do with him being there than anything else. The lad's not usually this cautious around him, but Tommy's illness has shaken him a bit. “Go on. Of course the man of the household has to check in on his sick brother.”

That does it. Finn immediately straightens up, and comes into the room with whole new air of confidence. Alfie gets up from the chair and gestures for him to sit. Finn does, with a rather proud look on his face. He reaches out and strokes Tommy’s hair the way he’s seen Alfie do.

“Why is he asleep all the time?” he asks after a short while.

“It’s good to sleep when you’re sick,” Alfie explains. “Makes you get better quicker.”

“Can’t you make him wake up?”

“Sorry, lad. But don’t worry, he’ll know you were here.”

Finn nods solemnly. Looks at Tommy. “I’m going to take care of you,” he says and keeps petting him. “And when you get better, I’ll show you the den me and Eddie built in that field, where we found the big frog you know? It’s got a roof and everything.”

Alfie smiles a bit.

Finn sits there for a few minutes, talking about the den, and the big frog, and oh, that dead beetle he found and buried in the backyard. Then he looks up at Alfie.

“I’ve got to go and work with Eddie now,” he says and gets off the chair, adding in a very serious tone: “Can you look after him while I’m gone?”

“Of course,” Alfie promises just as solemnly.

 ...

Polly manages to convince him to sleep a few hours in the afternoon. The pair of them have a rare understanding. She is a no-nonsense kind of person, and displays none of the unease he usually imposes on people. Alfie respects her for that. Therefore, he allows her to put a mattress next to Tommy’s bedside, so that he can get a few hours rest while she keeps vigil. It’s going to wreak havoc on his back, but who the fuck cares?

“You’re no fucking use if you’re completely exhausted. Sleep.”

He sleeps. Just for an hour or two. Then Polly thinks he should eat something too.

“Nothing much has changed. He sleeps,” she says. “Go down to the kitchen for a while, or go for a walk. Being holed up in here is going to do things to your head.”

... 

Alfie goes outside. To the closest grimy alleyway. Brings his gun with him. Fires several rounds into a wall. The bricks shatters from the impact, sending dust and shards flying. A man walks by, pretends not to see. That’s the way it works in Small Heath. Alfie wishes he would say something. Give him an excuse to punch him in the fucking face. But he says nothing. And Alfie goes back inside.

 ...

When night falls again, he is back by Tommy’s bedside. Tommy isn’t awake, still. But it’s better that way. Let him sleep it off.

“The fever is higher again,” Polly states as she stands up to replace the water in the bowl before going to get some rest herself. “You sure I shouldn’t ask someone else to be awake too? Arthur? Or Ada?”

Alfie shakes his head. “I’ll wake you up if things get worse, yeah?” Polly leaves.

He takes his seat next to Tommy’s bed again. Tommy’s eyes flutter open, and Alfie awaits some sort of reaction to be able to determine how lucid he is. His eyes are still clouded, unfocused. There is a weariness there too, that makes a twinge of worry pierce his gut. Like the illness has taken absolutely everything out of him.

“Alfie?”

“I’m here.” Alfie runs his fingers through his damp hair.

“What time is it?”

“Half eight. Evening. You’ve been quite out of it since last night.”

Tommy breathes. Shaky breaths, in and out. His jaws are clenched in pain. It’s to be expected. This high a fever is bound to wreak havoc on all his joints.

“You’re supposed-“ Tommy pauses. Breathes. “To be in London.” Alfie can’t hold back a chuckle.

“I’m supposed to be right here with you. Trivial shit, everything else.”

“I don’t want you to see me like this,” Tommy says in a bout of honesty brought on by the fever.

Alfie just shakes his head at this. Strokes back his sweaty hair from his forehead. “Silly boy.”

Tommy is quiet for some time. “I could kill for a smoke right now,” he rasps out. Alfie laughs a little. It’s a welcomed moment of respite.

“Well, you could always try. Because there is no way I’m giving you a fucking cigarette,” he says. “That you even want one now, with that throat... Swear to God, if you could, you'd be smoking in your fucking sleep.”

Tommy gives him a painfully tired smile. “I’m guessing whiskey is out too?”

“Sorry love, maybe if you manage to eat something first. Drink some tea. Then we can talk.”

The room falls silent again. Tommy stares at the ceiling, still breathing in that slow, strained manner.

“I’m going to throw up,” he suddenly mutters. Alfie is up in a second, opens a window and dumps the water from the bowl down onto the street. Then he helps Tommy turn to his side as he empties the content of his stomach into it. It’s just water. When was the last time he ate something?

Tommy shakes throughout the entire ordeal.

“It’s going to get better soon, love. Just you wait.” Alfie helps him lie back down. It has to get better soon. Anything else is fucking unacceptable. 

...

The Shelby family is gathered in the kitchen. And for once, no-one says a word.

Finn is the one who breaks the silence. “Is Tommy going to die now?”

“No, of course not,” Arthur quickly says, reaching over the table to squeeze his shoulder. “He’s a fighter, you know. Had much worse than some fever. He’ll be fine.” '

“Promise?”

“Sure, kid.”

“You’re full of shit,” John suddenly spits and slams down his empty whiskey glass, looking at Arthur with wild eyes. “Of course he could die. People die from shit like this every day here.” All eyes turn to him, and Polly gives him a warning look, which he chooses to ignore. Finn looks down at the table, clearly fighting back tears, and Ada sits down next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“John, get it together,” Polly hisses and grabs his arm. John wrings himself loose.

“What? You saw him up there, did that look good to you? That fever’s going to fry his brain.”

“John!” Ada snaps, glaring daggers at her brother. “You’re making Finn upset.”

“All I’m saying, is that we should get it out there, that Tommy fucking Shelby could in fact die from a bloody fever. So we don’t all just drop dead from shock when it happens. Maybe he should be upset.”

Finn is crying now, half choked sobs that he tries to keep back, and Ada hugs him.

Esme walks up to her husband, takes a firm grip of his wrist. “You’re drunk, and making an ass out of yourself,” she hisses and leads him to the door. “Go, walk it off. Come back once you’ve decided to act like a fucking adult.” Then she gives him a shove. John storms out, and Esme closes the door behind him.

“I’ll go after him in a bit, if he doesn’t come back,” she states. Goes back to sit on the countertop. “But it’s better that he storms off and starts a fight somewhere. He can’t go on some kind of rampage here.”

“Why is Tommy sick?” Finn sniffs and rubs his eyes.

“Well, sometimes people just… get sick,” Arthur says lamely. “And there isn’t much you can do about it.”

“It’s unfair.”

“Aye, it’s unfair alright.”

 ...

 

“I’m not sure I like this,” Arthur says. It’s late. Him and Polly are alone in the kitchen now. Esme has dragged the newly returned, and now both much calmer, and quite distraught, John to bed. Ada has taken it upon herself to make sure Finn falls asleep. So that leaves the two of them.

“Oh, that’s a surprise. You’re usually so positive when it comes to Alfie,” Polly says sharply.

“I won’t apologize for being cautious.” Arthur crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m just questioning his motives. I mean, what Tommy lets other people do to him in the bedroom is none of my business. But I’m not sure it’s enough of a foundation-” Polly gives him a look that is enough to make him snap his mouth shut without finishing the sentence.

“Arthur Shelby, sometimes your stupidity astounds me.” She shakes her head, and then adds. “If you really think this is only about sex, then I’ve given you far too much credit in the past.”

“Well, what do you say it’s about then?” Arthur says accusingly. Polly gives him a shrug.

“Haven’t you seen the way Alfie looks at him?” She smiles just a bit. “And they way Tommy looks back. When they think no one else is watching. I’m sure they’re not even aware of it themselves.” She takes a drag on her cigarette, breathing out slowly. “I don’t mean to sound like a fucking romantic sap. But there’s something there. Don’t know what it is exactly, but I’m pretty sure it’s as good a ‘foundation’ as any.”

Arthur says nothing. Doesn’t agree. But doesn’t disagree either.

“I know you want to protect him, be a good brother. But you’re going to have to accept this. Tommy wants Alfie here. And if Alfie wants to take care of him, fucking let him,” Polly says. “God knows that boy hasn’t been cared for a whole lot in his life.”

Both of them look up when heavy footfalls come down the stairs. Alfie enters the kitchen, looking like he’s aged about ten years in two days.

“Ada is sitting with Tommy for a little while,” he says, walks up to the teapot, pours the cold liquid into a cup and drinks it.

“How is he?”

“It’s shit,” Alfie says. “He can't even keep water down. Hasn't been lucid in fucking hours.” He pours more cold tea in the cup. Drinks that too. “And now he’s completely out again. I tried waking him up, he needs to drink something, right? But it’s bloody impossible. Like someone bashed him over the head. Do you have anything stronger?” He nods to the teapot. “Not for him, obviously,” he adds and gives Arthur a look.

Polly takes out a bottle of whiskey from one of the cupboards. Fills a glass that Alfie drains in one go.

“I’ll be up with him,” he states. “But I figured, you know, we should all just acknowledge that he might not pull through, yeah? Do what you will with that information.” He sets down the glass with a bang. “Figured I should tell you. Or you may think I smothered him with a bloody pillow or something.” He leaves the kitchen, but brings the bottle of whiskey with him.

There is a shift in the air. Neither Polly nor Arthur say a word, but they both feel it.

 ...

Sometime during the night, Arthur comes into the room. Alfie doesn’t know what time exactly. It’s all a bit blurry to be honest.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he mutters, looking to his little brother. Tommy is trembling in his sleep, as if he’s freezing. But Alfie knows it’s the fever rising. Again. _How much can a human body take before it simply choses to shut down?_

“I’ve got to take a piss. And drink something,” he grumbles and stands up. “Sit with him for a while, yeah?”

“Is it bad?” Arthur asks, and actually manages to look him in the eye for a moment.

“What does it fucking look like?” Alfie pinches the bridge of his nose. Musters up all that non-existent patience he is so known for. He’s getting a fucking headache. But he can’t lose it now. No room for that. “Yeah,” he adds. “It’s fucking bad, alright.”

Arthur nods. Sits down on the chair. Looks at Tommy, seemingly at loss with what to do. Alfie is about to walk out the door when he speaks up. Quietly.

“I’m sorry. About what I said yesterday. It was out of line.”

“Yeah, it was,” Alfie says. But then he adds, “Hold his hand. He likes that.”

After a moment of hesitation, Arthur reaches out and takes Tommy’s hand. Alfie leaves.

 ...

Sometime in the small hours of the morning, Alfie drifts off for just a moment. He jerks awake when his cane falls to the floor with a sharp bang. As he’s done a lot these past days, he looks to Tommy, and notices right away that something’s changed. His breathing is shallow and laboured, and it’s clear that he is still in pain. But he’s not tossing and turning anymore. He is too still. Too pale, under the flush the fever has painted on his cheeks. That can hardly be a good sign. When Alfie puts a hand to his forehead, and almost yanks it back instinctually. Feels like fucking hellfire against his palm.

“Tommy? You with me?” he pats his cheek, first gently, but harder when he remains unresponsive. It has absolutely no effect. His head just lolls to the side. And he’s so warm. Alfie can almost see the fever completely frying his brain. He finds the thermometer, and when he puts it between Tommy’s lips, the mercury quickly climbs to 105 F.

He says some of the foulest words in Hebrew he knows as he hurries to wake Polly up. He gives the door two sharp raps before he opens it, finding that Polly has already sat up in her bed. She doesn’t even look dazed. Her eyes are sharp, awake.

“He’s burning up, we need to get him into some cold water, now. You got a tub or something, yeah?” He’s got this impending feeling that it’s too little, too late. But they’ll have to try, at least.

 

Polly and a newly awakened Arthur have filled a large steel tub with water in the kitchen when Alfie comes down with Tommy hanging limply in his arms. Thank God it’s a huge fucking thing. Probably could’ve drowned a horse in it. _Tommy would’ve been upset if he knew Alfie just thought that_.

Alfie lowers him into the water, holding an arm firmly under his head for support. The moment the water engulfs him, Tommy begins to struggle violently. The blue eyes snap open, but are glassy and unfocused, and it’s clear that he isn’t lucid. He doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t understand what is happening.

“He’s going to drown himself at this rate,” Arthur says and looks almost accusingly at Alfie. He doesn’t have time to get mad about it. Doesn’t have time to slap Arthur across the face and tell him that his little brother is fucking dying right in front of him, so what is he doing glaring daggers at Alfie?

“Hold him,” he just says. Arthur wraps both arms around his brother and holds him up against the edge to keep him from injuring himself, and Alfie gets in, not even bothering to take his shoes off.

And so he finds himself sitting fully clothed in a tub full of cold water with a delirious Tommy in his arms. Alfie thinks that at the very least, this is a quite unexpected way to spend a night. He pulls him flush against his chest, wraps an arm around him to hold him upright, and puts one hand on his forehead to keep his head still. 

“Hey, calm down.” Alfie soothes. “See, sweetie, we have to stay in here for a while. Just ‘till you’ve cooled off a bit. Wouldn’t want you to catch on fire.”

 

For the longest time, it feels like holding a panicked rabbit: Tommy squirms and kicks with weakened limbs and his heart beats hard enough to break through his ribcage. Alfie is rarely afraid -and maybe afterwards he’ll deny it- but right then, he is. _What if he dies?_ He’s not a fucking doctor. What if his heart just overheats, like a broken car motor? Feels like it’s going to, with the way it’s racing under his hand. Or if the fever has already ruined those delicate nerves that make up that brilliant brain of his?

 

Alfie waits. For things to either get better, or go completely to hell. What he’s been doing for days now. Finally, after several agonizing minutes, Tommy has exhausted himself enough to fall back limply against his chest. Alfie mutters comforting nonsense, rocks him slightly in his arms. As if he were a child.

Polly sighs and Arthur’s shoulders sag in relief. He’s almost forgotten they’re there. Now he remembers.

“Go on, get out of here. No need for you to be awake too. We’ve got this,” he says. No need for a crowd. He knows Tommy wouldn’t have wanted one, had he been lucid enough to say something. And yeah, maybe Alfie doesn’t want them there either. Nothing wrong with either of them, but he’s not quite sure how he’ll react if Tommy just doesn’t wake up. If he dies anyway, in spite of it all. He might start fucking crying, and he’ll be damned if Arthur Shelby is going to watch him sit with Tommy’s dead body in a bloody tub of water, sobbing. At least he can almost fool himself into thinking that’s what this is about: pride. Though deep down he knows that he just wants to have this moment alone with Tommy. Just them.

They’re family, Polly and Arthur. He gets that. But if Tommy dies, he’ll be just as dead when Alfie goes to tell them. It’s clear that Arthur is quite reluctant to leave, but Polly simply puts an arm around his shoulders and leads him out.

“I’ll be up. I’ll check in on you in a while,” she states. There is no discussing that. But they do leave.

Alfie looks down at Tommy. This boy is going to give him prematurely grey hair. Fucking beautiful, disaster of a person. His disaster. “The things I do for you,” he mutters. “Now you’ve got to promise not to die on me, alright?” Tommy can't die from this. Of all the fucking things in the world, a fever is not the one that will take him away from Alfie. 

 

It takes some time, and it feels like an ungodly fucking long time, but Tommy does come to eventually.

“What’s going on?” he mumbles, slurring a bit, but seemingly slightly more lucid than he’s been at any other point the past days. Alfie doesn’t think he’s ever been this grateful to hear his voice. To hear him form at least half a sentence. He almost could’ve cried. Almost. But he’ll save that for when he’s drunk sometime. Then maybe he’ll cry and rage at Tommy for almost fucking dying in his arms in some godforsaken corner of Birmingham, which was definitely not the fucking plan. Maybe he’ll say that sometime. But not now.

“We’re taking a little impromptu romantic bath. Isn’t it nice?” he says instead.

“Would’ve been nicer… if it wasn’t so bloody cold.” Tommy curls up against him, huddling for warmth that isn’t there. “Are you wearing your fucking shoes? And all your clothes” Alfie laughs, feeling some of the tension melt away.

“Well yeah, as I said, it was very spontaneous.”

Tommy shivers. “Could we please get out?”

“In a bit. I want to make sure we get your temperature down.”

Tommy nods against his chest. Trembles. “Distract me. Talk about something, you’re good at that.”

Who is Alfie to deny him anything at this point? He talks.

“You know, I’ve been thinking. That when we’re tired off all... whatever the fuck this is,” he gestures vaguely to their surroundings. “We should move somewhere.”

“Mhm,” An indistinct mutter. “Where?”

“I’ll buy us a house in the countryside, how about it? You could have horses. God knows why you love those animals, but we could get those. It’ll keep you busy. Give you something to do with all that restlessness of yours. I’ll do whatever the fuck it is people in the country do… shoot birds? Ain’t that a thing? We’ll have a dog.” Tommy says nothing, but seems to be relaxing more in his arms, so Alfie continues.

“And I guess I’m stuck with the rest of your bloody family now too, aren’t I? Feels like you’re sort of a package deal. So they could come too. But maybe live in separate houses, so we could get some fucking peace and quiet in our bedroom for once.”

“Arthur could have… plants. A garden, you know. He feels like the kind of person who’d like that. And John could get some of that aggression out by shooting things. Finn would have all this space to run around in; you know, kids really should have a fucking tree to climb? Always been my opinion. There’ll be loads of those. Don’t know about Polly and Ada though. They seem like city-folks to me.” He almost thinks Tommy has drifted off, when he suddenly lets out a little laugh.

“Thought you hated the countryside?”

_Maybe not if you’re in it._

“Well I’m prepared to make sacrifices. Though I am a bit worried about all those wheat fields. I could lose you in one.”

“Is that a joke about my height?”

“I have to make at least one a day.”

“Promise?”

“To keep pestering you about your height?”

“Yeah.” Tommy closes his eyes. “Promise to keep making stupid jokes, and tell bullshit stories that you’ve made up. Talk way too much all the time. All of that.” His voice sort of trails off and Alfie can feel him relaxing completely into his embrace, as if his fevered joints and muscles are unwinding themselves. He yawns. “And I wouldn’t mind that house.”

He’s fallen asleep again, but it’s a different sort this time, Alfie can tell. A deep, healing sleep. The sort that’s needed after an ordeal like this. And he feels then that it’ll be alright.

“No,” he says to no one in particular. “I wouldn’t either.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you got through that wall of text, I salute you! Well done!


End file.
